Tag Archives: misty skaggs

Ivy swad­dled the sapling oak in the tat­tered remains of a patch­work quilt that got washed one too many times. The stuff­ing seeped out and clung to the young branch­es in worn white puffs, like tired clouds. She was care­ful … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

The screech­ing and squawk­ing next door stopped and through the evening silence, Char­lene heard frogs peep­ing in the creek. And she heard her favorite rock­ing chair squeak­ing a lit­tle loud­er. She felt her­self move and bob a lit­tle faster in … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

On prom morn­ing, she was awak­ened by the croaky sound of Daddy’s decrepit old roost­er, over the hill at the barn. Day­break. Rose had always liked the sound of that word. And the con­no­ta­tions she imag­ined along with it. She … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

Her trail­er was a ripe patch of excess, bloomed con­spic­u­ous­ly at the base of a cliff on the edge of a bone dry, Bap­tist coun­ty in East Ken­tucky. The half-acre around it was lit­tered with fad­ed Moun­tain Dew cans glint­ing … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

I remem­ber tired, washed-out women warn­ing us young’uns with his name — “Uncle Charlie’s gonna come, gonna come all the way out here and get you." I remem­ber we believed it. I remem­ber the good ol’ boys round­ing up a … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

All the old men from the Beartown Church of God call me Sis­sy. There’s Ligey and Whirley and John­ny and my Mamaw’s cousin, who found Jesus after he beat can­cer a cou­ple years back. They’re work­ing Men of God. They … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

I saw a red-tailed hawk, with his red tail flash­ing sun­light lift up off the side of the high­way, that storms a con­crete path par­al­lel to Louisville, along the riv­er bank. He shouldn’t have been there. A big, bronze bird … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

My fuzzy, ear­li­est mem­o­ries unfold in a sprawl­ing house on a hill. A house sit­u­at­ed at the peak of a ridge, over­look­ing a bright green holler we filled with corn and toma­toes and beans and a straw­ber­ry patch I loved … Con­tin­ue read­ing →

On a hill­top far­away, in anoth­er time, I had a pony. Papaw teth­ered her to one of the tall, thin maple trees sit­u­at­ed in the dead cen­ter of the bright, green acre of clover we called the front yard. And … Con­tin­ue read­ing →